


Until Hope Has Fully Withered

by Lewdsmokesoldier



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls II
Genre: Breast Focus, Breast Fucking, Breast Play, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25518616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lewdsmokesoldier/pseuds/Lewdsmokesoldier
Summary: A curse is a terrible weight to bear, and one that far, far too many have shouldered in pursuit of empty promises. Yet you might find true and tangible success in its grasp. So your potential deserves to be nurtured, and your suffering smothered. And only one woman, stretched between gray fog, flickering embers, and yearning darkness, has such power.
Relationships: The Bearer of the Curse/Emerald Herald | Shanalotte
Comments: 11
Kudos: 21





	Until Hope Has Fully Withered

**Author's Note:**

> Based, with permission, on [this piece of Emerald Herald art](https://twitter.com/AfrobullArt/status/1279226319679750145/photo/3) from the talented [Afrobull](https://twitter.com/AfrobullArt). Many thanks again to them for letting me use their work in connection with this story: please support them however you can.

Hope. A feeble, tiny thing, but all that stands between this life and unending shackles. Despair would mean surrender to something worse than death, and like the flame that threatens to fade and wither, you cling to whatever progress and meaning you can find or make for yourself. A fragile thing to build a barrier with, but it is your only choice, and so it is no choice at all. To lose hope is to become empty, and to become empty is to lose not merely yourself, but your  _ self _ . All that makes you  _ you,  _ and that which separates this “you” from the “you” that you hope to never behold.

You had already accomplished so much. To endure more was unjust, unworthy of that which had already been exacted from you, here and in the time beyond your present memory. Before that sigil had made itself known, and that hunger had started to swell. But life, and death, and undeath, was rarely just, and more rarely kind, and the loss then was already absent from your mind. Pushing forward was not merely expected, it was necessary.

_ She _ had been there, from the start in more ways than one. A lure, but also a guide. A companion, but also a mentor. And, more than anything, a witness, and the only reason you had been able to get as far as you had. Perhaps the despair that threatened you would never grip her, for she had seen too much, and found such failure to be mired in disappointment. But the new threshold you had crossed, trespassing into the dreams of the ones who crossed the ocean, lavishing ruin upon the land, had awakened something more than misery in her.

Curiosity, yes, and interest. But neither came to the heart of the matter.

The Emerald Herald kneels. It is as you have before her, so many times, yet it is wholly unfamiliar. Russet bangs shelter the right side of her face, and faded green ripples across her hood and cape. Gloved hands, and the wrappings on the left, are facing upwards, open and waiting, and the crisscrossed straps of her boots brush the soil with her kneeling.

All is set for her to play the part of you, when souls find new homes in your person. But your empowerment is not to come as such here. The strings binding her hood drape across her breasts, but they are all that remain. The fabric, tan and copper and yellow and patterned with a tree and interlocked lines, is gone. The tabard is vacant, and where the breeze once fluttered, only bare, pale skin shudders in the wind.

A promise of an eased burden. So long ago given, and never something that you had foreseen as such, yet it comes to pass here. The supple, gentle softness of her chest is squished from the sides by hands clad in leather, then pressed together around your member. Something so neglected that you had almost let its existence pass from your memory, but in this moment, you could not imagine a world where your mind was not guided by the impulses of your shaft.

Her thumbs knead her nipples, pushing into the pebbled protrusions gently as she slides forward, enfolding more and more of your length in the pillowed confines of her breasts. The Emerald Herald watches you, head tilted up, brown eye half-lidded as she beholds your face for signs of surrender. And when none pass, however welcome she is, she squeezes more tightly and drags upwards and away, pulling your testes along with the grip she is exerting upon her breasts...and through them, onto your rod.

It is then that you flinch, and twitch, and gasp and bite your lip. Pain has become second nature, such that death, however miserably it comes, elicits little in the way of emotion or reaction. But pleasure...pleasure is unfamiliar, and intimidating, and so distantly removed from your purview that when she has encapsulated your whole crotch in the hold of her breasts, you have no ability to process it. You can feel the warm, welcoming embrace of her chest, and the flutter of her heartbeat against the tip of your shaft as it brushes as deep into the valley of her cleavage as it can go. Your sack is cradled in perfect, plush softness, squishy and supple and smooth, eliciting little twitches and pulses from the orbs within.

All of these enrapture you, and it is precisely this strangeness that destroys your comprehension. You have no measure, or standard, for her ministrations, and so the slightest stimulation is exhausting in the most wonderful way.

The Emerald Herald shifts, leaning away and straightening her back, so your length points not forwards, towards her torso, but upwards, and the girthy tip of your shaft peeks out from between the comforting squeeze of her chest. The whole of your length, and the heft of your sack, is constricted by her grasp, and you have no doubt that she can feel your pulse throbbing through your member and pulsing in your sack.

Ascending, and descending, she grinds with utmost care, jiggling her chest around your captured crotch, pushing on you from all sides. The head of your shaft slips back into the hole she’s made with her breasts, and then is pushed back, bobbing up and down as she moves and sways. 

Your hands ball into fists. You feel...there is  _ something _ within, something as primal as any Dark Soul, and just as intrinsic to, if not humanity, than your own self. You had lacked this for long enough that, with it rearing forward again, you barely recognized it. But the tightness, and warmth, were nothing more than beautiful, and you make a sound that you do not understand as it builds. But she recognizes it.

The Emerald Herald stills her movements, still squeezing her chest around your shaft and sack. Her hood has not fallen from her head, and her bangs have not revealed her right eye. She is not exerting herself, even with the flush that has colored her cheeks and reddened her features. Her eye, still half-hooded, glimmers with invitation. And when she knows you are watching, hanging on her every movement, she sticks out her tongue, lips curled into a circular opening, and lets loose a single, quiet gasp. It is the only welcome you need.

Your length shudders and trembles. Your sack twitches and seizes up. An unstoppable pressure crests upwards, and a single long, thick rope of your seed fires across her face, draping across her bangs, nose, and offered tongue. And then more. You squirt your cream onto her single exposed brow, and you fire it onto her cheek. You shoot your peak straight into her open mouth, and you dust her chin and jawline with it. You scatter your eruption across her hair and hood. As the urgency dies down, it oozes from the tip of your length onto her breasts, and into the crevice she has made with them. 

You release a breath you did not know you were holding, then, as you watch how the Emerald Herald’s whole upper body has been coated with a shimmering, dazzling white. The evidence of your enjoyment drips down from her brow to her eye, and from her jaw to her shoulder. It mixes with her drool to trickle from her lips and tongue to her chin, and from her chin to join the puddle and layer already plastering her breasts. She has been painted, indelibly showered with your entire journey’s worth of your arousal, and it is the sweetest baptism that she could bear. 

Slowly, carefully, she withdraws her tongue back into her mouth, and it is only after she gulps, swallows, and opens her mouth that you recognize the cream now missing from her throat, where your seed had found purchase. 

And yet.

And yet.

She is not sweating, or panting, or tired. In spite of it all, as her whole upper half is coated in the evidence of your enjoyment and her blessing, she seems...relaxed. Satisfied. Marveled.

And it is the happiest you have ever seen the Emerald Herald throughout the entire time you have known her.

* * *

The seat is vacant. Not only does the Lord go without a Throne, but the Throne of Want wants for a Lord. A King of Drangleic, and a Lord of Cinder...you shall be neither. And with your understanding, you will be more, however unknown your destiny.

But it will not be alone. A familiar presence shadows you, and surges ahead, matching the wane and wax of dark and fire. But you know them by a new name, a new face, in a new way.

She kneels for you, as you did so often before, and as she has done only once. Now, twice. Her amethyst eye, so long hidden, can at last be bared before you, however temporarily. Contentment drifts across her face, coloring her cheeks and teasing forth her smile, unblemished by what might have been, as her chest wraps you in perfect comfort.

The Emerald Herald knelt for you once, to cradle you with softness and encouragement, and bring you more joy than you had ever known. As Shanalotte, she will kneel before you however many times it takes for the cycles to draw to a close, and, with newfound love, embrace you with her breasts, with the same care and gentleness beyond the end of fire.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [twitter](https://twitter.com/Lewdsmoke) and [ Hentai Foundry](http://www.hentai-foundry.com/user/Lewdsmokesoldier/profile).


End file.
